


Slow Hands

by Lediona



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Frottage, Improper use of a kitchen table, M/M, POV John Watson, dancing while doing the dishes, he doesn't know what's going on but he likes it, inside john's head, slow hands by niall horan, when fandoms collide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2018-10-29 04:45:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10846743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lediona/pseuds/Lediona
Summary: The jingle for Capital caught his attention.  Oh, Christ.  Why on Earth was their radio tuned to Capital?***Or when John listens to Niall Horan's Slow Hands and does a slow dance in the kitchen...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So...this just happened. While listening to Slow Hands on repeat, I had this headcanon and was encouraged to write it out. Thanks to Niall for the inspiration and @lautemalerei for reading it over.
> 
> This fic goes out to my dear @witheringspite because she has put up with me yelling about Niall and Johnlock for years now and she deserved a fic to bring the two together. <3
> 
> You can find me on tumblr @lediona25 - come chat to me there! x

John looked around the flat and sighed in disgust.

They hadn’t had a case in nearly two weeks and Sherlock had expressed, frequently and at ever increasing decibel-levels, that he was “Bored!” He’d spent the last few days hopping between experiments, pacing the sitting room and badgering John to get him cigarettes. John himself was nearly at the end of his tether when the madman ran off to Bart’s late last night and hadn’t been heard from since.

It was now nearing lunchtime and after a leisurely and _quiet_ morning, John couldn’t take it anymore. The flat was a bloody disaster. Bits of abandoned experiments littered the kitchen table. File folders, graphs, books and various papers were scattered around Sherlock’s chair, the desk and the sofa. Half-full teacups occupied every flat surface (and some not-so-flat surfaces) in every room. John felt like he was wading through an incoming tide of Sherlockian detritus and it was giving him hives.

Not that he wanted to clean up after Sherlock...again, but if he wanted to continue to live in 221B, then something had to be done.

He left Sherlock’s papers and books where they were - after facing Sherlock’s wrath for moving his seemingly random piles (“The Work, John! How am I supposed to make connections when I can’t locate the test results I need because you’ve ‘tidied’ the flat?”), John had learned to leave that particular job to Sherlock.

Collecting rogue Chinese takeaway containers and a few old newspapers, John tipped the lot into the bin before sweeping the sitting room and kitchen for dirty teacups and dishes, fishing a butter-smeared knife from between the sofa cushions and a dinner plate from where it was shoved under Sherlock’s chair.

The stack of dishes on the counter was frankly appalling. He wasn’t certain that they had any clean dishes remaining in the cupboards. How did he live like this? A year ago he had been a military man, used to strict schedules and clean quarters. Now he lived with a slob, a child, a genius with no concern for others, and his own routines and standards had been shot to hell.

Surveying the kitchen, John heaved another sigh - this would likely take him awhile. He reached up to flick on the dusty radio that occupied a corner shelf in their cluttered kitchen, before turning on the hot water to fill the sink, squeezing in the washing up liquid and dumping in the first load of dishes. 

As John started scrubbing, he drifted into a daze, fingers working by muscle memory and radio adverts buzzing through his subconscious - a new Renault, PG Tips, some film starring Matt Damon. 

The jingle for Capital caught his attention. Oh, Christ. Why on Earth was their radio tuned to Capital? 

He was more than tempted to change the station to something a respectable 40-year-old doctor would listen to, but he was up to the elbows in bubbles, so he gritted his teeth in anticipation for the song that the DJ was announcing - “And here’s the most requested song of the day, Niall Horan’s Slow Hands!” - a pop song, most likely by some kid young enough to be John’s son.

Not that John was a big music buff anyway, but hearing contemporary pop and hip hop songs while in the shops or a taxi always just reminded John that he was well past his prime. None of the artists’ names were familiar and ever since the auto-tune became a thing, it all just sounded the same to him - an electronic beat that gave him a headache. If he hurried, he could finish up the washing and turn the blasted thing off. Jesus, he was old. 

As he stacked teacups on the drying rack, John found himself bobbing his head in time with the beat of the song. Noticing, he straightened up and tried to pretend that he hadn’t been enjoying it. But now that he was properly listening, the song actually had a groove to it. Like some of the funk from his teen years, the guitar riff was gritty and sensual; as it washed over him, John could feel it creeping down his spine, reverberating out to his fingertips and down to his toes. 

_We should take this back to my place  
That’s what she said right to my face_

What did it matter if he felt a bit foolish? There was no overly observant consulting detective in the flat to catch him out. John could dance if he wanted. With a chuckle over his Men Without Hats reference, he gave in and allowed himself to go back to bopping along, scrubbing at a particularly stained teacup before rinsing and placing it to the side to dry. 

_I’ve been thinking ‘bout it all day  
And I hope you feel the same way_

Although Sherlock would undoubtedly know that he’d turned on the radio by the slight disturbance in dust and intuit that he’d been listening to Capital (despite it not being his fault that the blasted radio was tuned to this station) and just _know_ that John had been dancing around the flat by himself like a teenage fangirl. 

Well, he’d seen Sherlock do any number of ridiculous things, including whipping a corpse and taking the tube with a harpoon while covered in blood. Sherlock could just piss off.

_I just wanna take my time  
We could do this, baby, all night_

As embarrassing as it was to admit, John found this song rather...sexy. His hips began to sway, remembering (vaguely) those late nights in sweaty clubs back in his uni and army days, how strangers’ hands had traveled over his skin and gripped his arms, his abdomen and, daringly, his bum. John giggled at the thought - that felt like someone else’s life.

Lately his life had consisted of Sherlock, crime scenes, the clinic and takeaway in front of the telly. No late nights in dark clubs. No pulsing melodies pounding out of subpar speakers. No strangers’ hands. 

_No chance  
That I’m leaving here without you on me_

Jesus. That line was a bit much, wasn’t it? John shuddered, warmth pooling at the base of his spine. Maybe he had time to wank before Sherlock reappeared in the flat. Not that his presence ever stopped John from masturbating, but there was something freeing about having the flat to himself. He enjoyed not having to force himself to be as quiet as possible or to rub one out in the shower. (Despite his attempts to hide it, Sherlock always seemed to know and would either roll his eyes or give him a knowing smirk when John reappeared. The latter John could never think about too closely.)

_Fingertips putting on a show  
Can’t you tell that I want you, baby_

John paused his washing up to indulge in his dance. Gripping the counter with his right hand, he dropped his hips lower, twisting in smooth figure-eights. His left hand drawing random shapes in the air. It was his attempt at being alluring, although no one in their right mind would ever describe him as such. John was plain. John was dependable. John was approaching true middle age. Alluring was a word reserved for tall, slim, attractive people with mysterious eyes and ridiculous cheekbones. Sherlock was alluring, although admittedly only when he wanted to be and it suited him, usually to some questionable end. 

_Slow hands  
Like sweat dripping down that dirty laundry_

Laundry. John should do a load of laundry. He was getting remarkably short on clean pants and socks. 

That could wait.

There were a million things he needed to do, but instead he was going to enjoy this song because it was surprisingly good. The next one would probably total shite, but then he could rush through the dishes and switch the station.

Tidying the flat would probably take the entire afternoon, unless Sherlock decided to come home and John could strong-arm him into helping. (Unlikely.)

The song was building to the end. John found himself closing his eyes and biting his lower lip, all pretence of washing the dishes gone as he danced in the kitchen. The singer moved into another round of the chorus and John sang along with him, the words simple enough to pick up after hearing them a handful of times. 

_I already know that there ain’t no stopping  
Your plan and those slow hands_

Hands settled on his hips and John startled to alertness, heart racing in his chest; he hadn’t heard the door or the footsteps on the stair. Flustered, John tried to turn around, but the hands gripped him firmly. 

“Keep dancing.” 

Sherlock’s baritone rumbled near his right ear and John sucked in a gasp. Distantly he heard the song still playing, but he was unable to move. Embarrassment and arousal were at war within him. When he didn’t move, Sherlock’s hands began shifting his hips for him, finding the rhythm, although rather disjointedly as John’s limbs no longer felt connected to his body. 

“John.”

It was pitched low, one syllable stretched out infinitely to curl through the air and dance along his skin. He said nothing but John’s name, and it sounded like a command, but there was a neediness behind it that caused John’s blood to run hot in his veins. Fuck.

_I already know that there ain’t no stopping_

John always felt a bit untethered when Sherlock wasn’t around to fuss over, apologise for or laugh with, but now with Sherlock pressed against his back, fingers digging into his hips, voice wreaking havoc with his nerves, John couldn’t comprehend this new dynamic. 

At any given moment Sherlock seemed to take up all the air and space in a room, but right now John was overwhelmed by him. His chest against John’s back, the silk of his shirt running smoothly over the coarser wool of John’s jumper, his forehead brushing against the hair at the back of John’s head, curls tickling every time the met his ear, his breath warm against John’s neck. 

Whatever Sherlock’s plan, there was no stopping it.

God, Sherlock’s hands were on his body. John had seen those hands be precise when calibrating his microscope, dramatic when making deductions, strong when manhandling suspects and gentle when hugging Mrs. Hudson. But never had he experienced them be intimate and possessive like they were now. Sherlock’s hands were beautiful, and they were in full control of the current situation.

_Your plan and those slow hands_

He was dancing with Sherlock to a pop song in the kitchen. It would have been laughably surreal if he wasn't hyper aware of the fact that his arse was grinding against Sherlock’s groin, pinned in place by those strong hands. John was gripping the counter in front of him, as if that soapy, chipped formica was all that was keeping him from floating away. He forced himself to relax his hands and allowed his head to loll to the beat. John shivered as warm lips pressed lightly against the back of his neck.

“Turn around.”

John gasped as the command registered in his brain, eyes blinking in surprise. His hands trembled slightly and his legs felt heavy, but he allowed himself to be turned by the hands on his hips. 

_Slow hands_

Once John had completed his turn, he focused on vee of skin bared by Sherlock’s shirt collar, afraid to raise his eyes any higher. Sherlock’s hands slowly moved across his lower back and pulled him in closer, the movement causing John to reflexively catch Sherlock’s biceps to steady himself.

Sherlock leaned down so his mouth was once again near John’s ear and that sinful voice whispered, “Dance with me, John.”

John may have whimpered at that. Jesus, what that voice did to him. 

_Slow hands_

At some point the song ended, but neither John nor Sherlock registered it, lost as they were in their own dance of slow hands.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because we all know things didn't end with a slow dance in the kitchen...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In typical fashion, this...just sorta happened. I needed a break from my WIP so I decided to pick up this little story again, with no set idea of where it would go. I thought it'd be steamy because of the lyrics of the song Slow Hands. John and Sherlock, however, had a different idea, so it's more sweet and silly because they're idiots in love. Obviously. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> And this hasn't been beta'd at all, so apologies for any typos! :)

“Dance with me, John.”

It was a question, a command, a plea, and John gave in to it, allowing himself to be pulled tightly against Sherlock’s body. 

Although John thought he knew the physicality of Sherlock Holmes fairly well by this point, after months of watching him chase criminals across London, throw himself dramatically down on the sofa in a huff, or step out of his bedroom half-dressed in a sheet. He knew the breadth of Sherlock’s shoulders, the lankiness of his limbs and the narrowness of his waist by sight. He did not, however, know how that body would feel pressed against his own.

It felt bloody marvelous. Especially when Sherlock insinuated one of those lean thighs between his legs and bent his knees so that they were of a height. It was like they were puzzle pieces slotting together with a satisfying snap, although in this case it was more of a moan and John wasn’t sure which one of them made the sound. Possibly both.

As they rocked together to find a shared rhythm (led by Sherlock, of course), John released his grip on Sherlock’s biceps to slide his hands up and over his shoulders, feeling how the shirt slipped along the smooth skin beneath it. His arms crossed behind Sherlock’s neck and his left hand rested lightly over his shoulder, revelling in how the muscles shifted beneath his fingertips as they danced.

_Slow hands_

The song ended abruptly and instead of pulling apart, Sherlock kept them moving as it transitioned into another song, something slower and sweeter. Where before their dance had been full of possessive fingers, gasping breaths, and grinding hips; this new melody inspired gentle touches, soft sighs, and delicate swaying. It was like being swept up in a dream and to remind himself that it was real, John focused on all the places their bodies were connected. 

Sherlock’s large hands were spread across John’s back, holding him, guiding him. Their heads  
tipped forward, pressed together at the temple, close enough to feel like they are breathing the same air. At some point, John had pushed his left hand up into the hair at the back of Sherlock’s head, the soft strands sliding through his fingers as he played with the curls.

“Sherlock,” he whispered, not daring to raise his voice any louder, “what are we doing?”

“Dancing, John. I’ve always loved dancing.”

“Have you?” This surprised John. Somehow he’d always assumed that dancing would have seemed frivolous to Sherlock, but then he’d listened to him play the violin so beautifully, like it was his only outlet for all those strong emotions that he adamantly refused to admit he had, perhaps it was the same with dancing. 

“Mmmhmm, just never had anyone to dance with before,” Sherlock said, his arms tightening fractionally around John’s waist.

Oh.

John’s heart clenched at the idea of Sherlock desperately wanting to dance, to be intimate, to share his heart with someone and holding himself back for years. He wished he’d known so he could have….well, he doesn’t know what he’d have done. Probably panicked again and insisted that he was ‘not gay’, but that was never really the truth. He can accept that now. After all, he’s wrapped up in Sherlock’s arms like he belongs there. Not exactly something mates do.

He pulled back just far enough so he could look Sherlock in the eye for the first time since he had entered the kitchen. “I’ll dance with you. Whenever you want.”

Sherlock’s lips quirked up into a surprised smile.

“Although this is about the extent of my dancing ability,” John said, nodding to indicate the slow shuffling they were doing across the kitchen floor. 

Sherlock looked at him, mischief in his eyes. “We’ll just have to work on that then. I am an excellent teacher, John.”

“Oh, are you? I doubt you’ll be saying that after I’ve stepped on your foot for the hundredth time.” 

Sherlock shrugged, his expression suddenly serious but shy. “As long as I get to dance with you, then you can step on my toes as many times as you want.”

John stared at him, open-mouthed. He’d always thought that he had game, after all he’d pulled any number of women on nights out at the pub, but John was pretty sure he was being swept off his feet by Sherlock. It was totally unexpected, really. He assumed Sherlock was too uninterested or inexperienced to put in the effort with anyone, but here he was being all openly sexy and romantic, like it came as easily to him as deducing.

Their movements had slowed and now they were basically just standing and looking at each other, really looking for possibly the first time ever. It was terrifying to let Sherlock in, to admit these secret desires to himself and to Sherlock, but the knowledge that Sherlock wanted him too gave John courage.

Sliding his hands to Sherlock’s face, John looked at him on more time, a question in his eyes, and waited for Sherlock’s answer. Sherlock looked back, disbelief flitting across his countenance, before he gave a minute nod and his eyes zeroed in on John’s lips.

John licked his lips in anticipation. Then, pushing up onto his toes, John kissed Sherlock as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and perhaps it was. 

It was quickly apparent that Sherlock had little finesse, but he made up for it with sheer enthusiasm. He kissed John with abandon, like all his desire had been trapped behind a dam, which now had broken and it was pouring out of him in torrents. John thought he would happily be swept away by it - after all, that seemed to be an accurate description of their relationship since the beginning. Sherlock was a force of nature and John bent, swayed, followed, clung on, fitted himself into Sherlock’s life, his space and, apparently, his heart.

Caught up in his new favourite pastime of kissing Sherlock, John was surprised when they bumped against the kitchen table, the edge of it hitting Sherlock in the back of the thighs. He grunted slightly at the impact and then promptly sat down on the table, pulling John into the vee between his legs. 

The change in height and position meant that they were perfectly aligned and John blanked out momentarily with the realisation that he could feel Sherlock’s erection nudging against his own through their trousers. Groaning, he pulled himself closer with one arm, while tightening his grip on Sherlock’s hair with the other, licking into Sherlock’s mouth, sucking on his bottom lip. It was wet and messy and glorious. 

Some distant part of his brain was trying to tell him to slow it down, but then Sherlock tipped backward onto the table so that John was sprawled across his chest, hips rutting reflexively. Oh, Christ, Sherlock felt far too good beneath him. 

Then there was a clatter and John realised that the mess he’d been tidying earlier was still covering table.

“Sherlock, wait,” he gasped, pushing himself up but not getting far due to the grip Sherlock had on him. He also had a determined look on his face, like he wasn’t going to let John get away, which made John laugh. “I’m not going anywhere, you nutter. Just let me move this stuff so we’re not defiling the post!”

Sherlock didn’t release him however, so he had the challenge of shifting piles of post, academic journals and various experiment accoutrements with a limited range of motion.

“You could help,” John muttered, looking down at Sherlock as he pushed some beakers farther up the table so they were out of reach. The movement caused John’s groin to drag deliciously along Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock tried to roll his eyes, but John was pleased to note that he doesn’t quite manage it. “Just push it all onto the floor, John. It’s hardly important.”

“You say that now, but I know you’ll be whining that something was ruined later on.”

Sherlock grunted and gave a sharp tug so John was plastered on top of him once more. “John, I don’t care. Just kiss me again. Please.”

The ‘please’ was so forced and unnatural that John had to laugh. Sherlock was ridiculous. Why was it not surprising that Sherlock was petulant and demanding in this situation? But there was no possibility of resisting him, especially not when he looked so thoroughly debauched with glassy eyes, mussed hair and red, well-kissed lips. 

“And to think I was annoyed with you an hour ago.” John grinned down at the man below him and played with one of the curls on his forehead, twirling it around his finger.

Sherlock cocked his head enquiringly. “Why? I wasn’t even here.”

“All of your stuff was though - the flat is a disaster, Sherlock.”

“Do you really want to discuss the state of the flat right now?”

“No, not really. I just was thinking about how quickly things can change. I did not anticipate snogging you on the kitchen table when I started doing the washing up.” They’re still pressed so closely together that John goes slightly crossed-eyed while they have this conversation. 

“That’s odd. I think about snogging you whenever I wash the dishes.”

John snorted. ‘You never do the washing up.”

Sherlock’s eyes crinkled as he laughed. “True. And if we’re aiming for complete accuracy, then technically I think about kissing you 83.7% of time, at least when I’m awake, but I’m sure the idea of kissing you takes up room in my subconscious so that I dream about it as well, althought that’s harder to measure.”

It’s like the air is punched out of John’s lungs. “Well, it’s good to be accurate.”

“It is, but, John, do you know what’s better than thinking about kissing you? Actually kissing you. Can you come back down here now?”

God, he loved this man.

With a grin, John peppered a series of quick kisses across Sherlock’s cheekbones, on the bridge of his nose and the corner of his lips, along his jaw and down his neck. John laughed as Sherlock squirmed beneath him, grunting with displeasure as John continued to avoid his mouth. Then Sherlocked levered his long legs up to hook behind his back and John found himself manhandled into a position where Sherlock was able to kiss him properly again. 

Sinking into the kiss, John revelled in the feeling of Sherlock wrapped completely around him and as they rocked together, full-clothed on the kitchen table, he was quite certain that this wasn’t going to last very long. 

He didn’t care. There would be time for many long, leisurely orgasms, perhaps even in a bed, but right now, this was perfect.

On the radio, an advert ended and a new song began.


End file.
